A Brother's Due
by aelurus
Summary: Aberforth Dumbledore knew his brother was an idiot, but this – oh, sod it. As if he cared about his well-being.


_Note: Apparently I actually finished a fic. Just a ficlet, though. Hope you enjoy, this is the first time I've posted anything in years and I'm a little anxious!_

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"It's a bit late, isn't it?"

Albus wearily tossed his cloak aside and seated himself at the bar. "I'm sorry, Aberforth. I couldn't get away any earlier. Dolores Umbridge seems to think she has a monopoly on my time, much like her superior used to."

"Much like you seem to think the same of me," Aberforth said sourly. Nevertheless, a chipped but serviceable glass of ale was soon sitting before Albus.

"I do not think I ask so much of you these days. Just a ready ear and the occasional drink."

"And what do I get in return? Your presence, is that enough?"

"No, I rather think that my presence continues to be something for which I must beg your tolerance," murmured Albus into his ale. "I know well that I carry all the debt between us. But what can I give, Aberforth?"

Aberforth ignored the question and instead took up a dirty glass and a rag, resuming the cleaning he had been midway through. After a minute, he swept his gaze around the empty pub and said, "I got no news for you. Scum's keeping quiet these days."

Albus nodded. "I thought as much. The Ministry has been maintaining a tight leash on everything with the sort of competence nobody could have expected. They are almost as omniscient as I am." He allowed himself a brief, grim smile.

"Nevertheless, keep an ear out. Now that Dolores Umbridge has been made High Inquisitor—you did hear, didn't you?—Severus, Minerva, and I cannot afford to make any suspicious moves. This is exactly the sort of climate Lord Voldemort was hoping for, and he'll use it to his advantage," he said, an edge of bitterness in his voice.

Aberforth grunted his understanding. For several minutes, the only sounds in the tavern were the occasional clink and the dull, ineffectual squeak of his rag against glassware.

"Professor McGonagall was in here the other night."

"Was she?" said Albus lightly.

"Don't come here that often, witches like her. More for the Three Broomsticks."

A noncommittal hum came as a reply.

"Anyway," Aberforth pressed on, "she was looking a bit rough, so I told her, none of that gillywater rubbish, I don't have it anyway: it's Ogden's finest for you." He gave a short laugh. "Smashed in no time. You'd think a Scot could hold her drink."

"Aberforth, if there is nothing more to this story besides you getting my deputy thoroughly inebriated, I should like to hear no more," said Albus, his voice suddenly sharp.

"That's not even the interesting part," Aberforth said, raising a brow. "She talked quite a lot about you—"

"—which is hardly surprising, as she was speaking to my brother."

Aberforth paused and smiled a strange, twisted smile, watched warily by his brother. He picked up another glass after a moment and, wiping it down, continued, "Well, I got rather tired of her concern for you, as you can expect. Decided to press my advantage. You know, don't you, that she's a fine-looking woman, I've always—"

Albus stood very quickly.

"You didn't," he said, eyes flashing. "You wouldn't."

"There's an interesting reaction." Aberforth did not stop polishing his glass nor acknowledge the danger at all.

"I didn't," he finally said, almost as an afterthought. "I didn't, and no, I wouldn't." His lips twisted in that humorless way again. "She's not my type."

Albus stared at him, hard, and slowly resumed his seat. "Please tell me your point."

"She's in love with you, isn't she? Obvious."

"And how did you come to that conclusion?"

Aberforth's usual scowl returned to his face. "I just told you."

"Minerva had a few drinks and expressed her concern for me. Ergo, she is in love with me," recited Albus, not bothering to mask his skepticism.

"You forgot the bit about me being a barman who's seen her – _situation_ – enough times to know it when I see it," Aberforth growled. "And the bit about you wanting her back. How long have you known her?"

Albus bristled slightly. "Aberforth, she's known me since her days as a student. She could never—"

"Hmph. Explains a lot."

"What, precisely, might that explain?"

Aberforth's answer was only a particularly disdainful glance.

Albus stared wordlessly at his brother, his glass loose in his fingers. After a minute, he let his shoulders sink and lifted it to his lips once more; a sudden weariness overtook his features. "Believe what you wish to believe."

"I bloody well will, thanks," Aberforth snorted. "You're telling me I don't know my own brother?"

Albus suppressed a wince at the biting tone that accompanied the word _brother_. "I wouldn't presume any such thing," he said. "I'm telling you that Minerva's private matters are none of your affair. And neither are they mine," he added, taking another swallow from his drink for emphasis.

"You damn well thought it was your affair when you stood up to defend her honor just now."

"I really do not wish to discuss this."

"Though I'll tell you, that witch don't need anyone to defend her honor," Aberforth continued loudly, as if his brother had not spoken. "She can hold her own, all right."

"I must say, Aberforth, I've not seen you this vehement about a subject since the Ministry announced their ban on experimental—"

"Never mind me," said Aberforth fiercely, casting an angry gaze about for more glasses to clean. Finding none remaining, he picked up one he had already wiped down, scowling. "This is about McGonagall being in love with your thick head!"

"My thick head decided long ago to refuse even considering such impossible dreams."

Aberforth slammed the glass down on the bar top. "You idiot," he snarled. "So, you fall in love with the worst possible bastard at eighteen years old—but when the right person comes along when you're old and wise and maybe even fit for her, you turn a blind eye!"

Albus didn't answer.

"I get it." Aberforth's lip curled. "Fine. You made a mess out of our family. Now I suppose you want to make a mess out of your own life, as punishment. I'd say you deserve it."

"I deserve that and so much more, Aberforth."

"So what does Minerva McGonagall deserve, pray tell?"

"She... can't love me." He said it with a forced finality.

"Merlin's goat," Aberforth muttered, snatching up the glass again. "Only Merlin's goat knows why she loves you, but she does, you arse."

Albus drained his own glass and set it down firmly on the table, looking around for his cloak. "If that's all, I had better be going."

"Can't you do anything about Willy Widdershins?" Aberforth snapped. "He comes round every other day, reeking of toilets and what have you. Sits in the corner like a great mummified bullfrog for hours, driving away all my customers."

"I expect the Ministry will take care of him soon enough for the little stunt he pulled in August. Good night, Aberforth."

As usual, his brother didn't reply. Albus smiled sadly, letting the door swing shut behind him.


End file.
